Thursday, February 8, 2007


Pots and pans and the Tinman,
they all drowned that night.
When roses bled,
into the watershed,
And clouds joined the fight.

I looked into a hollow eye,
that held fingers of sunshine.
It reminised the death of pilion dreams,
and stifled screams,
No pilion dream, nor bleeding rose, tinmen make headlines.

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